Thought But Never Said
by JackieJLH
Summary: There are some things that cannot be said. Set directly after 'Green Eyed Turtle'. Madeline/Operations.


**Author's Note: **Written directly following the episode "Three Eyed Turtle". Contains mention of dubcon.

* * *

**Thought But Never Said**

Up until today, they've celebrated every victory they've ever had together with sex.

Madeline would like to say that she doesn't know why they always seem to end up _(in bed) (against a wall) (bent over a desk)_ sleeping together, but she's never been much for self-delusion or ignoring unwanted truths. She leaves that to Paul. The more irrational his thoughts and justifications become, the faster her mind rushes to fill in the spaces and make the proper connections, to analyze and dissect until her every _(want) (emotion) (need)_ thought could be graphed and charted and written into a report. Perhaps that contradiction, his dreams and ideas and stubbornness matched against her practicality and obsession with _(details) (minutia)_ perfection, is why they keep having victories when the odds are relentlessly stacked against them.

_'No,' _she corrects herself, _'that _is_ why.'_ She hates 'perhaps', just like she hates 'maybe' and 'possibly' because no one can truly understand something that's rooted in guesswork and theories, they can only create more theories with varying degrees of plausibility. Madeline longs for certainty in _anything,_ but instead has to live her life sifting through these shades of gray, weighing _(possible)_ benefits against _(possible)_ consequences with every word and thought and deed. Allowing herself to end up in Paul's arms time after time is the biggest perhaps-maybe-possibly of them all, and the what-ifs lean far more towards consequence than benefit, but she chooses to repeat it anyway _(and hates that a little, too)._

Sometimes it's slow and gentle _(and almost, almost loving, if only they weren't who they are)_, and sometimes it's _(angry)_ frantic and passionate, but the end result is always the same: bodies locked together, held in place by tangled limbs, fingers knotted around wrists or hair or bedsheets for _(a night) (an hour) (fifteen stolen minutes in an office, the white room, van access just that one time)_ as long as they can get away, as they try to maintain the _(high)_ fleeting sensation of triumph in a world where winning is often more dangerous than losing and few bother to even take the risk.

"They're all cowards," Paul once said, tone mocking and irritated.

_They're survivors,_ Madeline thought but never said because even though it was the truth, her heart whispered echoes of Paul's words _(cowards cowards cowards)_ all the same.

* * *

Today there isn't any sex simply because there isn't any time. They walk away from George and get into a waiting car, then step out of the car and into Section, and now their roles have changed. No more furtive glances and contrived arguments, no more playing the parts of the _(out-of-control and the hurting-and-belittled)_ abuser and the abused. This act is titled Friends and Co-Conspirators, nothing more, and George's cameras are still watching and recording.

Going home doesn't mean anything changes because George has eyes there, too, and they don't need to give him anything damaging to work with even now. Madeline enters her apartment _(alone)_ and considers _(dinner) (a shower) (tea and a good book) (sleep)_ relaxing for the first time all day, but she can't seem to tear her mind away from the picture frame that she knows conceals a camera, and so, always having tended towards efficiency rather than impulse, she starts in the kitchen, opening cupboards and moving the refrigerator and standing on the counter while she dismantles the overhead lights. She finds two cameras and one listening device, and crushes them into pieces before moving on to the living room. _(She glares into each tiny camera lens and hopes that George is watching, that he reads in her expression the promise of destruction that she's making to him over and over.) _It occurs to her that this is the closest thing she's had to freedom in almost twenty-eight years, and the thought almost makes her _(laugh) (shake her head) (cry)_ smile.

* * *

It all started with a note inside of a napkin.

For nearly twenty years, Section One has relied solely on technology for everything, and monitored its operatives' activities tirelessly. For nearly fifteen years, Madeline and Paul have communicated privately via handwritten notes—they can't be hacked, can't be traced, and no one expects anything important to be written on paper anymore. _(Fools.)_

One day _(right in front of Adrian, which simply made it more satisfying),_ Madeline slipped the first note to Paul, small and unnoticeable, wrapped around the handle of a coffee mug that she passed to him while reviewing a profile. _(I have the files. They're waiting for you in the location we discussed.)_ The flash of a question in his eyes was hidden in an instant, and two days later she'd received a reply, written on half of a Post-It, stuck on the underside of her panel.

"Like children passing notes in school," Paul once said, chuckling and shaking his head.

_Children conspiring to overthrow their teacher and kill any classmates who protest,_ Madeline thought but never said because even though it was the truth, she knew that thinking about Adrian would only serve to ruin Paul's good mood.

They hadn't used that method of communicating in years—with Adrian gone, there wasn't any reason. And then one day they sat down to breakfast, and Madeline found a slip of paper tucked inside her napkin. _(I'm told George has increased our surveillance. Look into it.) _

"Total coverage," she said cryptically two days later, walking up behind him in the Perch. Two of her Oversight sources had confirmed it; one of them had even provided her with a detailed list of locations.

Paul frowned. "You're sure?" She stared at him blankly for a moment as if to remind him who he was speaking to, then turned away. He nodded.

"This has to be dealt with."

She responded with _(a smile in her eyes) (a slight change of her stance that indicated anticipation of a challenge) (an irritated pursing of her lips because she couldn't even shower now without George looking over her shoulder and it was getting ridiculous) _a nod of her own. "How would you like to approach it?" she asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear him say it—they would have to be united in their goal, or any effort they made would fail.

"Complete elimination," Paul answered without hesitation, but when he looked over to meet her eyes, she could see apprehension in his gaze. "With caution, of course," he added, and the corners of her mouth twitched with a suppressed smile.

"I'll begin putting together a profile." She turned and left without another word, and then spent the rest of her day creating a profile for a mission in Germany that would require taking out an entire building and all of its occupants. They could easily have completed their task without destroying everything, but 'complete elimination' could only be interpreted in so many ways by listening ears, and besides, there was a certain amount of satisfaction to be found in incinerating unsuspecting Red Cell supporters.

It was four days later, after mulling over everything day and night, that she began the profile Paul truly wanted. She spent an afternoon shopping for bonsai at a local nursery she'd visited before, pretending to take written notes on the details of various plants for the benefit of her ever-present but well-hidden bodyguards—she knew at least two of them were leaking information to Oversight—all the while jotting down the details of her plan. It would take patience, and Paul would surely object to _(chasing after her like an anxious puppy) (questioning her decisions) (ridiculing and blackmailing her) (treating her like his personal whore)_ some of the details, but she was confident that it would work as long as it was done correctly.

* * *

Madeline is giving serious consideration to pulling up the area rug and trying to decide if she can move everything off of it without damaging _(the furniture) (the floor) (herself)_ anything when Paul knocks on her door. She knows the second the sound echoes through her apartment that it's him, and only bothers to check the security monitor out of habit.

"I thought we could celebrate," he says as the door swings open, holding up a bottle of champagne. Then he takes in her appearance _(dusty, wrinkled clothes and smudges on the knees of her black stockings from crawling around on the floor; she's only shed her shoes instead of changing her clothes entirely, so she's fairly certain she looks ridiculous)_ and smiles. "You've been busy."

"I'm not finished yet," she answers, disappearing back into her apartment but leaving the door standing open, and he follows her. He walks into the kitchen, and she returns to the living room, carefully lifting the coffee table and moving it out of the way. Paul reappears a moment later, empty-handed, and eyes the sofa. Without a word they each lift one end in unison and move it aside.

"What else do you have left?" he asks, and she frowns at how much work remains to be done.

"The bookshelves, and everything in the bedroom and bathroom."

Paul nods and moves to the shelves lining one wall, beginning at the top corner and removing each book individually, fanning through the pages before setting it back in its place. Madeline finishes with the rug _(and is glad she didn't pass over it, since there's a tiny microphone stuck to the floor directly in the center),_ and then moves on to bathroom. She meets Paul in the bedroom, where he's standing barefoot on her bed, carefully removing a camera from the overhead fan. By the time they're finished, they have an entire bag of crushed electronics sitting at their feet.

"You had more than I did." Paul smirks. He looks younger, somehow, when he smiles.

She can't help but answer, "Maybe George thinks I'm a bigger threat," arching one eyebrow, a laugh hidden in her eyes.

"You're just more fun to spy on," Paul teases, and _he_ doesn't bother to hold his laugh back. Madeline narrows her eyes at him and glares, but he looks entirely unrepentant. "Now how about that champagne?"

"I want a shower first," she replies icily _(she's not really angry, and his cheerful smile suggests that he knows it),_ then grabs her robe from its hook in the closet. She's half expecting Paul to ask to join her _(she'll say no, she has to),_ but he just nods and saunters off, headed back to the kitchen. She's grateful. There are some things Paul doesn't need to see.

* * *

When Renee appeared, Madeline knew the time had finally come to escalate things; George was getting too comfortable with the idea of increasing his representation inside Section. They developed their plan on bits of scrap paper, the corners of napkins and edges of newspapers, passed between them and then destroyed, all of the details tucked away inside their memories. Their encounters in the Tower soon became a regular event, and as the cameras looked on, Madeline feigned increasing reluctance and defiance, while Paul pretended at anger, irritation and obsession. She glared daggers at him; he laughed. She resisted his touch; he tightened his grip. She pushed him away; he held her down. Like a well-rehearsed dance.

"I hate this," Paul once said, his tone heavy with regret as they sat tucked away in an underground bunker after the Tyco debacle, the first time in months they'd been able to talk freely.

_So do I,_ Madeline thought but never said because even though it was the truth, she knew that Paul would call everything off if he thought she was actually being affected by any of this, and she needed him to stay focused.

Despite the fact that she was the one _(pinned beneath him) (forced to her knees) (so sore it hurt to sit down) _on the receiving end of the most painful portions of their plan, Paul seemed to be more tortured by it. Madeline did her best to see it all as means to an end, and really, she told herself, it was hardly different from the Valentine operations she'd done years ago—except now instead of her body being on display for half of Comm and some terrorist with a penchant for brunettes, it was George and a few of his minions watching.

But no matter how well she ignored the emotional toll this was taking on her, the rainbow of physical evidence _(ugly green at her wrists) (purple on her neck) (bluish-black marring her knees) (dark brown circles where fingertips had dug into her hips and thighs)_ couldn't simply be willed away. So she started wearing black stockings or pants every day, purchased heavier make-up, and hoped that Paul would turn off the lights before removing her clothes because he sometimes faltered when he came across a mark he'd left behind, and they were too close to their goal to let George become suspicious at this late stage.

And finally, finally, George had contacted her.

* * *

When she emerges from the bedroom, hair still damp and the robe wrapped tightly around her, but make-up firmly in place, Paul is just stepping out of the kitchen, two glasses of champagne in hand. She accepts one from him, and he holds the other up as if to make a toast. "We've won, Madeline."

"Yes," she replies, her voice almost a whisper. "It seems we have." Taking a sip of her champagne, she turns away to look out the window, attempting to get herself back under control. They haven't really won, not yet, not until George actually resigns, and she refuses to let herself become too used to the idea prematurely.

Out of the corner of her eye she can see Paul watching her, and then she feels his fingertips lightly brush the side of her neck, as if he's searching for the place he knows he left _(bruised) (stinging) (sore)_ a mark just days ago. She stills under his touch, resisting the urge to pull back.

"I never wanted to hurt you," he says softly, and then she does move away, her expression reverting back to her usual mask of disinterest.

"It was necessary," Madeline responds with a shrug, finishing her champagne and setting the glass down on the windowsill. "I told you to. You have no reason to blame yourself."

"Perhaps." He sounds thoroughly unconvinced. His gaze follows her, his eyes sad and searching, and she gives in to impulse and takes his hand in hers.

"You have no reason to blame yourself, Paul," she says again, firmer this time. And despite her better instincts _(bad idea) ('Let's not open things up again...') (need to stay focused, this isn't over yet)_, she leans forward, closing the short distance between them, and they kiss.

* * *

The broken orchid meant she'd set up a meeting. Replacing it with a new one meant the meeting had happened—white because George took the bait. Otherwise it would have been pink again.

Later, in his office, his eyes were filled with mirth and gratitude as she offered herself to him, George's cronies looking on. It was still an act, they both knew that, and it couldn't be _(as gentle as he would have liked) (as frantically passionate as she was longing for)_ exactly what they wanted it to be, but it didn't have to be angry or rough, either, and that was enough.

They didn't even make it out of the office—Paul locked the doors with the push of a single button, and the windows were already dark. Within minutes she found herself with her skirt pushed up above her hips, her legs wrapped around him, back pressed against the cool, smooth wall. She was just thankful that in this position, he could see her face—she didn't think she could have maintained her expression of boredom and disgust for much longer, and the show had to remain convincing.

The kiss _(of course)_ turns into more. Paul abandons the rest of his champagne on the coffee table, and he removes his tie and begins unbuttoning his shirt before they even get to the bedroom.

_The tradition lives on after all,_ Madeline thinks to herself, and lets out a small laugh.

"What?" Paul asks.

"Nothing," she answers with a self-deprecating smile, and pulls him into another kiss as he tugs at the sash of her robe. She reaches for the light switch, and he grabs her hand instead, maneuvering them further into the room, and Madeline has no option but to sit down as the back of her knees hit the edge of the bed. Sinking to the floor in front of her, Paul grins wickedly as his hands push the robe from her shoulders.

* * *

In the plane they sat side by side, watching George approach on a monitor.

"Brulois was a good choice," Paul said, leaning forward. His body seemed to radiate nervous tension, but Madeline knew that to anyone but her, he appeared perfectly calm.

"Yes, I thought so," she answered smugly, smirking as he rolled his eyes.

George handed over the key file and opened the briefcase. The look on his face _(confusion) (sudden understanding) (rage)_ was unmistakable, and Paul didn't even try to suppress his grin.

"That man deserves everything he has coming to him," Paul once said, standing in Committee with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the door his superior had just walked through.

_So do we,_ Madeline thought but never said because even though it was the truth, neither of them really wanted to hear it said aloud.

Brushing past him, Madeline gracefully stepped out of the plane. The look on George's face when he saw her _(disbelief) (hurt)_, and then saw Paul following close behind _(rage again)_, was almost enough to make her grin as well.

* * *

Madeline is trembling and still trying to catch her breath when Paul slowly stands, and she shakily pushes herself up to a sitting position again and helps him remove his remaining clothing.

They both end up on the bed this time, and she motions for him to sit leaning against the headboard, then straddles his hips and sinks down with a soft moan. His fingers trace invisible lines over her _(back) (hips) (breasts) (thighs)_ skin as she moves, and when he hesitates, focusing on one of the many bruises the robe had been concealing, she knots her hand into his hair and pulls sharply until he looks into her eyes instead.

They're almost completely silent—a habit ingrained years ago during frantic and hurried encounters in out-of-the-way corners of Section, where they couldn't be seen but _could_ be heard if they weren't careful—but the room echoes with gasping breaths, and when Madeline moans again, even though it's barely audible, it seems to drown out the world.

* * *

"I love you," Paul once said, sweaty and tired, relishing the feeling of her bare skin against his.

_I love you, too,_ Madeline thought but never said because even though it was the truth, she just... couldn't. The reasons were too many to name.

* * *

"You can't fall asleep here," she says, ever the _(cautious)_ practical one.

Paul grumbles something that sounds like, "I know," against her shoulder. Five more minutes pass. The hand running lightly over her bare stomach stills, and she knows he's fallen asleep anyway.

Tomorrow he'll meet with George, and everything is going to change. Everything. _(Except this, perhaps. Maybe. Possibly.)_

Rolling her eyes, Madeline reaches for her alarm clock and sets it for four a.m. They'll both benefit from a few hours of sleep before being forced to return to reality, she reasons. And she doesn't want this to end just yet.


End file.
